


Can You Hear Me?

by TheNewKid



Series: Hear Me [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst(?), Anxiety, One Shot, PTSD(?), Sad Clarke, WARNING: Explicit bullying, don't know what to tag, read with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-02 20:18:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14552736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNewKid/pseuds/TheNewKid
Summary: "My name is Clarke Griffin. I am seventeen years old. My family is dead. I cannot speak. Everyone hates me. No one can hear me. No one wants to. I am alone."ORNo one cares about Clarke. Except Lexa.WARNING: scenes of cruel bullying, read with caution!!Please read the beginning note!





	1. Can You Hear Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody! How are you all doing? I'm TheNewKid! 
> 
> First, I would like to say that I am not a writer; more of a reader. Other than writing terrible two-liners in like grade 1, I have no experience in writing stories, or fiction, or whatever. I also suck at English class and my grammar is a disgrace to us all (thank Gates for Microsoft Word though). There shouldn't be too many errors in grammar, spelling, and whatever but, if you do spot them, please let me know so I can learn from my mistakes and fix them. Thanks in advance!
> 
> Second, this is most likely going to be a one-time thing; like I said before, I don't write. This one-shot kind of just popped into my head from something that happened in reality (NOT to me, but someone else on a much more civil scale than this one). So, unless I miraculously get the inspiration and motivation to write again, don't expect me to be posting more fics.
> 
> Third, this is my first time writing a story (since elementary) and actually posting online so please be gentle! I welcome constructive criticism and would love to learn more to improve my writing in general. If I somehow offend anyone, please let me know how I should change the fic and I'll do my best. 
> 
> And lastly, I'm new to AO3 and have no idea what I'm doing: what warnings I'm supposed to put, what tags I should use. So, if I'm missing anything in terms of those things, please let me know about that as well and I'll try to fix it. 
> 
> With all that being said, I'll leave you guys to the story. (For those of you who actually read this note, thanks and I'm giving you a cookie in my mind). Hope you all enjoy the story and I'll probably never hear from you guys again! Bye!
> 
> *EDIT (August 3rd, 2018): Minor changes to dialogue and minor character action (basically Pike is a jerk and Titus is mentioned)

_Pain._

_That was all she could feel. It was getting harder for her to breathe by the second as it felt like her chest was going to concave in on itself. There was a constant ringing in her ears. She turns her head left and right to try and comprehend what just happened, but her blurry vision becomes even more impaired as blood dripping from the cut just above her right eyebrow limits her view. She can barely see her father slouched in the driver's seat over the wheel, groaning; her mother and little brother, Aden, both unconscious in their own seats._

_“Dad?” she starts to scream. “Dad! Mom! Aden!”_

_She tries to reach out to her brother to try and wake him up, but her arms won't move. She reaches for her mother. Her father. Anyone to try and get out of this mess. Her ears continue to ring as she starts to scream for help and a sick feeling begins to blossom within her; she isn't sure if she wants to puke or pass out first._

_“Clarke,” she could barely make out her father's voice over everything else, “Clarke, baby, we love you.”_

_“Dad! Dad!!”_

_Her vision goes fuzzy, and the last thing she remembers is screaming for her father._

_\----------------------------------------_

“Be careful how much baking soda you add in the reaction and make sure to double check your calculations because if you add even a little bit too much, the reaction will expl-”

BOOM!

A burnt smell fills the room as the teacher’s warning is ignored by a particular group of students in the chemistry class. The teacher quickly follows the stench and does damage control while scolding the members involved in the incident for not listening. While some students point and laugh as their peers suffer the consequences of their actions and others, who are not as interested, carry on with their own experiments with even more caution than before, there is one person that stands still as the sudden sound of the explosion causes her to freeze up and relive the memory that haunts her every night.

Seconds, minutes, maybe hours could have passed as Clarke stayed rooted to her spot but, once her senses kick in, she bolts out of the classroom and heads straight to her place in the school. She stomps into the hallway, the noise coming from her sneakers loud enough to rival the rapid heartbeat in her ears. She pries the door of the old empty art room open and rushes straight to the corner. With her back against the wall, she slides to the floor, curls into the wall, and that's when the tears begin to fall.

 _My name is Clarke Griffin. I am seventeen years old. My family is dead. I cannot speak. No one can hear me. No one wants to. I am alone,_ she recites to herself, over and over again.

Wrapping her arms around her legs that are curled up to her chest and touching her forehead to her knees, she rocks herself, back and forth, back and forth. She reminds herself how to breathe. In one breath, out another. In, out, in, out. She counts the time. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Counts the number of seconds she is alone until _she_ comes to find her. 1,2,3,4,5…

Sure enough, the sliding door of the art room is pushed open and a girl walks through, immediately making a beeline to her corner. The girl crouches down next to her, places a gentle hand on her back and starts rubbing soothing circles, all while whispering words of assurances in her ear. She tries not to focus on the warmth the hand on her back creates, tries not to allow herself to be soothed by the sweet voice that fills her senses. _She doesn’t really care about you. No one does. The teacher probably asked her to come get_ _you. That's all._ She tries not to draw comfort from the girl next to her. _But why is she always doing this for me?_

Eventually, when she is finally calm enough to rejoin reality, Clarke looks at the other girl to see that she is pushing off the ground and holding out a hand to help her do the same. Once they're both on their feet, the girl helps to gently dust and straighten out her clothes, being careful not to cross the line of being too friendly. Warm, slender hands cup her face - she has to fight off the impulse to lean in - as the tears that run down her face are softly swiped away, leaving little evidence of her emotional breakdown. She cautiously looks up into the gorgeous green eyes focused on her, sure that she would see the same look of pity and disgust given in her direction every day by every other student in the school, but it's not there. She's not sure what look is being given to her, but it's warm and nice, and fills her with a sense of something familiar that she can't quite decipher. Slowly, the hands around her face drop down - she tries to ignore the ache in her heart from the loss of warmth and contact - and takes her hand instead.

“Come on,” the girl whispers. “Let's go.”

They walk back to class, where the teacher is still berating the students for their incompetent listening skills, the students stare at them and quietly chuckle amongst each other. _The weirdo is back. She must have had another mental breakdown. Gosh, she's so weird. What a freak._ Eventually, their attention is directed back to the task at hand as the teacher announces the single digit remaining class time and whoever is not finished must stay behind. Even as she stands in a classroom filled with other people, even as she can feel another hand wrapped around her own, she feels utterly alone.

 _My name is Clarke Griffin. I am seventeen years old. My family is dead._ I _should be dead. I cannot speak. Everyone hates me. No one could hear me. No one wanted to. I am a freak. I am alone._

_\----------------------------------------_

The bell rings signaling the start of lunch as teachers, at the last minute, try to shout out instructions for homework that's due the next day, but fall on deaf ears as students rush to stuff their belongings in their bags and bolt out of the classrooms for their one hour of freedom.

Clarke walks down the school hallway as the world flashes around her - students smiling and greeting each other loudly with exaggerated exhaust and relief for the three hours that they were apart, all while walking to get the greasy food served in the cafeteria. Teachers coming out of classrooms and making their way to the teachers’ lounge where they no doubt gossip amongst each other about who amidst the population of students are behaving today, and whom will cause a headache.

No one looks at her. No one hears her. No one wanted to. She was broken, mute, and dead to the world - someone people normally wouldn't even bother to glance at. She ducks her head and tries to navigate her way through the chaos of people to her destination. As the students disperse to their respective spots and start to settle down for lunch, she slides into the art room again - the only place she feels she belongs now. Just like earlier, she makes her way into her corner and begins to recite _My name is Clarke Griffin. I am seventeen years old. I have been orphaned. Nobody loves me. Everyone hates me. I am a loser. I am a nobody. I hate my life._

As it has happened every day at this time for the last few months, the door opens once again, and the same girl that helped her earlier that day comes in holding up two brown paper bags as she makes her way to the corner to sit next to her. Setting a bag on each of their laps, she tries to coax her into eating while opening her own bag and pulling out her own lunch. Clarke complies halfheartedly for her companion’s sake.

It's become somewhat of a routine now; the girl shows up fifteen minutes after the bell rings with lunch for them both, sits down on the cold hard ground next to her, and eats with her while spilling out random facts about herself and/or the latest news that she found interesting. Clarke has learned much of her companion because of this; she is also seventeen (though a few months older), her favorite color is blue (but not just any blue, a very specific blue), she likes to exercise as she claims it relaxes her (and Clarke _definitely_ has not noticed the result of this in her physique), she is one of the few students in the school that actually enjoy history class, her healthy obsession with space, on and on and on.

As they continue to eat, she steals glances from the corner of her eye at the girl next to her. Biting into her sandwich, she eats as if without a worry in the world and starts expressing how excited she is for the launch of the next Mars rover. Clarke discreetly (not really) stares at the other girl's face; her sun-kissed complexion, the wild brunette mane tamed into multiple braids that pull back from her face revealing the chiseled jawline that looks as though it's been carved out by the gods themselves, her plump, full lips that draw her in every time she speaks. But it was the windows to her soul - deep forest green eyes - that captivated Clarke’s attention the most; the color and emotion they contained so vastly striking that Clarke never dared to look in them for too long for fear of drowning (in the best possible way). This girl was a work of art, begging to be immortalized on a canvas and, as an artist, Clarke was silently appreciative.

There was an overall excitement to this girl as she continues her rant about the amazement of space; she didn’t look like she felt repulsed by being in Clarke’s presence, didn’t look like she was going insane by the lack of noise on Clarke’s part, just went on carrying the one-sided conversation like she did every day since this whole thing between them started.

Once Clarke finishes her own sandwich, she leaves everything else - the applesauce, the granola bar, and the juice box - in the bag and hands it back to her… friend? _No. I am a freak. No one likes me. I am alone._ She dares to take a quick peek at her companion but immediately regrets it as the first thing she notices is the lips that once enthusiastically chattered about the great beyond now formed a cute irresistible pout, and the dark emerald orbs looking at her resonated with disappointment. Guilt fills her as she comes to think that she's the reason for the look, so she compromises and settles to take the granola bar out of the bag. The pout disappears and is replaced with a breathtakingly beautiful smile as the girl nods her approval. _Why do you care so much?_ She has been taking care of her since the accident - since she had lost everything and gone silent - without getting anything in return. _I have nothing left to give you. You should leave me be. Leave me to fade away in the world and release everyone from the burden of my existence._ But every day, she was there. Always so gentle, so kind, so patient.

After they were both finished with their food, the girl pushes off the ground and, once again, holds out a hand for her. Clarke looks up at the smile directed at her, then at the hand but makes no move to take it, instead she curls into her corner even more and places her chin on her knees. A flash of hurt crosses the jade colored eyes but is quickly dismissed and the girl leans down to take her hand anyways to lead her across to the far side of the room where the numerous paintings that she ignores every day are situated.

"These are really beautiful Clarke. Do you remember these? You brought them with you when you first came here. I assume these are from before because I’ve never seen you pick up a paintbrush or a pencil. I hope one day you can create something happily again.” Together, they stare at the art pieces in front of them; the painted landscape of the old made-up city with the really tall building as a focal point that she once imagined being home, the charcoal drawing of her baby brother standing in his gear with a medal around his neck and the biggest smile on his face from just winning the martial arts tournament, and lastly, the hand-drawn portrait of her parents facing each other, eyes closed with foreheads together and arms wrapped around one another, peaceful smiles on their faces, basking in the other’s presence, ever so in love. Tears run down her cheeks as she looks at the people she’s lost, the reminders of the life she once lived. It’s too much and she wants to look away, but she can’t. Somehow sensing this, the girl steps into her view and arms slowly come up to wrap around her, forming a safe haven for her as she cries into the girl’s neck.

_\----------------------------------------_

It’s the end of the day and all around her students are opening and slamming their lockers close as they all grab their stuff to get out of school. Clarke does what she usually does when school is over: she stuffs the things she needs for homework into her bag while organizing others to keep in her locker, and then slowly makes her way to the art room where she can cry in peace. But when she opens the door, her heart stops and she cries a soundless scream.

Everywhere is a mess. The tables were pushed against the wall carelessly, blocking her corner and effectively helping students reach higher on the whiteboards as they draw vile pictures of her in various different ways to die. The words _FREAK,_ and _WEIRDO_ were plastered and dripping in red paint on the windows for all the world to see, and her artwork - the daily reminders of her family - was thrown on the ground, stepped on and ripped apart. As soon as they see her, she becomes bombarded with the phrases that she daily repeats to herself in her head. _Loser. Nobody likes you. Everyone hates you. Freak. Weirdo. Go die. Why do you even bother?_

The sound of her cries finally breaks free as she shatters to the ground, crumbling like the broken girl she is. The students start to gather around her in a circle and continue their ridicule as she bawled her eyes out, everything that has been held in all this time rushing out. They point. Laugh. Insult. Every word piercing at the wall she built around her heart until the wall collapses, leaving her vulnerable against the attacks. Her mantra that she repeatedly recalled to herself proven to be true, now more than ever. _My name is Clarke Griffin. Everyone hates me. No one likes me. I am alone. If I died, it wouldn’t matter. No one would care. No one._

Time passes. Ten, fifteen minutes. Something was wrong. The students weren’t leaving to go home; they were still standing around her, pointing and laughing at her meltdown, and there seemed to be more coming this way, trying to see what the commotion was all about. Twenty, twenty-five. Something’s not right. People were still laughing. Everyone was heading her way. Everyone but –

"Lex.." she whispers as realization dawns on her. A simple name. Three letters. The first word she's spoken in over 5 months. Her voice comes out hoarse and raspy from the lack of use, her throat feeling like it’s suddenly turned into the desert. Imagining that she would just show up out of nowhere with the juice box that was rejected at lunch, Clarke looks up at the crowd and begins her search for _her_ , desperate for _her_.

"Lexa" she whines with a frantic look on her face in a louder tone, loud enough for the students to here and they stare at her, wide-eyed and surprised that she can speak.

"It talks!" one shouted, and the crowd goes quiet, trying to hear what she has to say. She continues to scan through the mob, looking for the brunette. For those dark forest eyes. For her warmth. For her comfort.

“Lexa..” she mumbles again. The students catch this and it sends them into another fit of laughter.

“You think she's gonna come save you? Oh honey, she’s not coming” one says. “Lexa! Lexa! Where are you?” another mocks while pretending to look frantically through the horde. "She doesn't care about you, loser!" They continue to laugh. Laugh at her misery. Laugh at her pain. Laugh at the only thing she may have left. 

Her body shakes as tears rain down like a waterfall of sorrow. Her will deteriorates as each mocking word sends a piercing pain through her heart. At this rate, she won’t be able to last much longer. She lets out a final wail that silences everyone; the noise sounded so damaged, so heart-wrenching, so broken. Witnessing her break down, people begin to trade worried glances at each other; some even questioning among themselves “should someone go get Lexa?”

_Where are you? You’ve always found me before, why can’t you now? Can you hear me? I spoke up, but you’re not here to listen. Why?_

"Lexa... please come find me..." she prayed.

In an instant, she’s on her feet and shoving her way through the sea of people, desperate to get away from the spotlight. They fall like dominoes around her from her force, some shouting at her but Clarke doesn’t care. She ran. Ran until she was too weak to run anymore. Too weak to support herself. In the end, she ran into a supply closet and closed the door. Submerged in complete darkness, she dropped to the ground once more and cried harder than ever before.

Minutes pass. 1,2,3,4,5... And then light floods as the door is yanked open by the one person she needed most.

"Lexa!" she screams, throwing herself at the brunette and clinging to her like a lifeline. The brunette staggers at the force of Clarke’s sudden embrace, but soon, familiar arms circle around her and more tears flood her eyes as she chokes out a sound that catches somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Clarke! God! I am so sorry, Clarke. Titus wanted to talk to me after last period and we talked for too long. I am so sorry!" she apologizes as she nuzzles her face in the space between the blonde’s neck and shoulder, shedding tears of her own for her failure. “I am so sorry I wasn’t there. I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t save you.”

Clarke’s crying dies down to a sniffle. _She’s crying because of me. She’s crying_ for _me. She cares. She found me._ When no one else was listening, she heard her. When no one bothered to even look, she found her. When she was in complete darkness, she brought light back into her life. She cared.

"You spoke up.” Warm, slender hands cup her face - and this time, she doesn’t fight but instead, closes her eyes and leans into the warmth - to wipe her tears away. "I’m so proud of you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. But I’ll always find you. No matter what, I’ll always be with you. I’m here. I hear you.”

Clarke looks up into the gorgeous green eyes focused on her, and that look – the look that filled her with a sense of something familiar – is still there. She knows what that look is now, love. And that something familiar, happiness.

No one looked at her. _She_ looks at her, as though she hung the stars and moon in the sky.

No one heard her. _She_ hears her, as though she is the only sound in the world worth listening to.

No one wanted to. _She_ wanted to. Every day, for as long as she’ll have.

She was broken, mute, dead to the world. But with time, with _her_ , Clarke no longer felt alone. Clarke felt whole.

_My name is Clarke Griffin. I am seventeen years old. My family is dead. I can speak again. Nobody likes me except her. I am not a freak. I am somebody. I am loved. I am not alone._

_I have her._


	2. Question (Not A Chapter, Sorry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a question for you guys..

HI EVERYBODY! How's everyone been doing? I hope everything has been going well for all. I wanted to ask you guys a question:

Since summer is almost here and I might have some more time on my hands, I wanted to know if anyone would be interested in somehow turning this one-shot into a multi-chapter fic? I had a lot of fun writing that and everyone was so nice to comment; it was a really fun experience. Maybe I could try again? Please let me know if y'all be interested and, if you are and have some ideas/suggestions you would like to see happen, let me know in the comments and I'll try to make them happen.

Thanks! Until I (maybe) talk to you guys next time! Bye!

~ TheNewKid

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions for improvement?? Anyone want to share some of their great wisdom with me?
> 
> *EDIT (August 3rd, 2018): Can I delete the second chapter to make this into a one-shot again? Or should I leave it up for people's suggestions?


End file.
